


The Black Crown

by Spectre4hire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, F/M, Jon and Dany tag comes later in the story, Robb Lives, Warging, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre4hire/pseuds/Spectre4hire
Summary: In which Robb Stark is betrayed, but Tywin decides to send him to the Wall like the fallen kings of old.





	1. The Lions Rejoice

"Robb Stark has been captured."

Tyrion nearly lost the grip on his glass when his father delivered the unexpected news. Stunned silence followed the announcement giving him a chance to see how the others reacted.

Varys feigned surprise, the eunuch having been the one to learn this news first with his network of spies. Baelish was openly smirking. The Grand Maester had a slimy smile, amidst the wisps of white hair that failed to recapture the man's once proud beard.

His lovely sister was smiling, her green eyes gleaming with triumph, taking a generous sip from her wineglass.

In celebration, Tyrion wryly thought, or defeat or anger or whatever else she needed to serve as an excuse to allow her to indulge. To think she was honoring her deceased husband not just by wearing black but by beginning to drink like him too.

She sensed his gaze and turned to him. Her beautiful face marred by her disgust for him, her eyes narrowed, sneering.

He responded with a wide smile and raised his glass to her. She looked away annoyed.

"What of Jaime?" Tyrion spoke up, "Couldn't they trade him for their king?"

Tywin Lannister's lips twitched. It wasn't exactly a smile, but it was a close resemblance to one. "They do not have Jaime."

"What?" Tyrion couldn't believe their fortune. They captured the Young Wolf and they had Jaime back?

"Ser Jaime was released by Lady Catelyn Stark," Varys spoke up, "An effort to trade him for her daughters," he bowed his head, "a noble gesture but a costly one."

Tyrion could see the desperate hope in his sister's eyes. Way to hide it sweet sister, he wanted to roll his eyes, but his love for Jaime stopped him. It was the only thing they shared, he realized. "Where is he?"

"At Harrenhal," Varys didn't answer until he received a nod from the Lord Hand. "Where Lord Bolton was amendable to an agreement."

"So he's safe," Cersei breathed out a sigh of relief.

"He is," the Lord Hand confirmed, "And is on his way to the capital."

"I want Stark dead!" Joffrey slammed his fist into the table. "Do you hear me? I want him dead!"

Tywin Lannister didn't even flinch at the king's command. "No," he didn't look up from his seat to address his grandson. "Robb Stark has been defeated. He will take the Black."

"Surely your jesting, Father?" Cersei never knew when to keep her mouth shut. "He committed treason. He deserves to die."

Tyrion didn't mind his sister's stupidity. It was especially amusing when it was directed at their father.

"He has been beaten," Tywin's voice was firm and cold. "We must bring the north back into the fold. The Starks have ruled there for thousands of years."

"I don't care," Joffrey interrupted his grandfather's explanation. "I want him dead!" He stamped his foot. "I am the king! I demand you bring me his head."

Tyrion hid his growing smile with his wineglass. He looked to see a flicker of amusement across the Eunuch's face before replaced with bewilderment, while Baelish tried to look indifferent, and the Grand Maester blinked owlishly at the king as if he had never seen him before.

Cersei was the first to react to her father's stormy silence, grabbing Joffrey's hand, "We haven't let him finish," she coddled the boy, "Let us hear what grandfather has to say."

That only further infuriated Joffrey. He ripped his hand from hers as if it burned him. "He tried to steal my kingdoms! He needs to be punished."

"He is being punished, Your Grace," Tyrion decided to speak up, pitying his sister and nephew not that they appreciated it, judging by the looks they sent him. "I've been to the Wall. It's a cold, dreary place. A home of rapers and thieves, murderers and other criminals," he sipped from his glass, "Hardly the company for a king."

"He's not the King!" Joffrey corrected angrily, "I am the king!"

Tyrion bowed his head, "Long may you reign, your grace."

"The kingdoms have bled, now it is time to bind them together once more under the Iron Throne. They have gone to their knees and now it is our duty to help them to their feet." Tywin's eyes never left his grandson's. "And any man who must say I am the King, is no true king at all. Aerys never understood that, but you will learn that now that I've won your war for you."

"So you will let them live?" Joffrey asked sullenly. "We should give them steel not mercy! If they are to fall to their knees then that makes it all the easier to remove their heads!" A gleam could be seen in his green eyes, "They're all traitors! Robb Stark! His stupid mother! The Northmen! The Riverlords! All of them! I want them killed!"

"We'll surely run out of subjects with your wise leadership, Your Grace," Tyrion smiled innocently at his nephew.

"Enough," Tywin cut in before his grandson could make a further fool of himself. "The terms have been sent and agreed to."

"Without consulting me?"

Tyrion wanted to wince at his nephew's petulant tone.

"I am your Hand," Tywin reminded him sternly. "If you trust in my judgment your rule will be a long and prosperous one." He turned to Grand Maester Pycelle, "The king is tired."

Pycelle understood at once, "Dreamwine, my lord?" He moved to stand up.

"I am not tired!" Joffrey protested.

"That will serve," Tywin ignored him. "Cersei, make sure your son is well attended to in his chambers."

"Of course, father," Cersei bowed, falling into the dutiful daughter role with ease. She pulled at Joffrey's arm while Pycelle followed behind with the others understanding it was their cue to leave too.

"Not you."

Tyrion had made to leave like everyone else. He looked to see who it was his father was addressing. It was indeed him.

"You will stay."

Tyrion took some satisfaction at seeing Cersei's surliness at her being forced to go while he got to stay. He grinned at her, holding his glass in toast to her, that only angered her as she pulled harder on her son's arm.

"These childish games are beneath you, Tyrion," His father chided him.

Tyrion turned to see his father looked unimpressed. His natural look for me, he thought, and with that he drank. The wine sadly wasn't as sweet as his sister's reaction of her being dismissed and him staying, but mayhaps it will be with a few more samples.

"How were you able to capture the Young Wolf?"

"Under a peace banner," his father answered simply.

Tyrion frowned. "I wasn't aware we sent peace terms to him."

"We didn't," he answered, "The Freys did." His father sensed his confusion since he continued, "The pup needed allies and with our victory at the Blackwater, he didn't have many places to turn to."

"He was desperate," Tyrion mused, remembering news of the recent but disastrous defeat the northern forces suffered at Duskendale.

"Yes," His father agreed, "But the Freys were not alone, other houses sworn to the Young Wolf understood which way the winds were turning.

"Which ones?"

"His good family." His father answered, "Lady Westerling wrote to me as soon as Robb Stark captured the Crag. He was injured, and she desperate."

"Of course she was," Tyrion wasn't surprised, "I'm certain she's heard that famous song once or twice," he feigned confusion, trying to remember the name of it, before he snapped his fingers, "Ah, yes: The Rains of Castamere."

His father wasn't amused by his theatrics. "She understood the price of defying our house." His expression hardened, "A plan was formed that would allow the young wolf to be snared. The Freys would've killed him too had they received my blessing."

Tyrion perked at that. He would've thought his father wouldn't hesitate to make the Starks an example to those that defied the Crown just as he made examples of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck when they rebelled against House Lannister.

Tywin was watching him. Those specks of gold shining within the sea of green of his eyes. "It was tempting and something I considered," he admitted, "But in the end, I realized killing him in such a manner would only lead to short term gains while threatening our future aspirations on the Throne."

The thought that his father spared the young wolf without him realizing it was enough for Tyrion to chuckle. The absurdity of it was more amusing then he could explain. "What are the terms?"

"Robb Stark will take the Black. As will Ser Brynden Tully, and a few others who refused to bend the knee." He looked down at his parchment, "The boy's uncle, Edmure will marry a Frey. Their child will inherit Riverrun, but the Tullys have lost the rights to be the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

"Yes, you really cannot trust a Paramount if they turn on their king," Tyrion observed dryly. "Will the Freys take the title?"

"No," His father made no effort to expand on his answer. "Edmure, his Frey wife, and their future son will reside comfortably at Casterly Rock for a time."

"Hostages."

Tywin inclined his head, "Yes, in case Robb Stark and the Blackfish decide it's too cold at the Wall."

"He is a Northman and the Starks are honorable," Tyrion didn't see the boy breaking his vows of the Night's Watch.

His father made a face that conveyed what he thought of the Stark's precious honor, "His mother will also remain in the capital as a guest of the crown."

"A near full set of Tullys for your collection, Father." Tyrion wasn't looking forward to seeing Lady Stark again. Since their last encounter had led to him being her prisoner and spending time in the Sky Cells. A lovely adventure, but one he didn't need to repeat.

He saw his father's annoyance at his japes, and knew that he was risking being dismissed, so he straightened up in his seat the best that he could. "What of Winterfell? With Robb going to the Wall, and his brothers killed…"

"Winterfell will pass to Robb's eldest sister, the Lady Sansa."

She'll finally get to go home, Tyrion found a bit of happiness for the poor girl, knowing she deserved a better life then the one his nephew and sister had been giving her this past year.

"The Tyrells were scheming to marry her off to their heir," Tywin's voice broke through Tyrion's thoughts. He looked to see the distaste in his father's expression at their allies' secret plotting, "That cannot be allowed. Thankfully, Lord Baelish came to me and informed me of their intentions."

"You'd think the Tyrells would be satisfied with their grandson sitting on the Iron Throne," Tyrion observed bitterly. He remembered the riots that broke out in King's Landing due to Lord Tyrell withholding food from the Reach. Now, those same people cheer for them, Tyrion despised the Tyrells for it, since the blame was pinned solely on him, They're adored now and I'm still hated.

"Indeed," a hint of approval in his father's tone, "They overreached themselves, and that has been corrected, but that still leaves us with marrying the Stark girl."

"I'm sure there will be a line of suitors for her hand that would stretch from here to Winterfell," Tyrion pointed out. Not only was the girl young and beautiful, but she was the key to the north. All of whom would covet the title and prestige that came with ruling the north as a regent for their future son and heir.

"There will be no line, because she has already been betrothed."

"Oh?" Tyrion wondered if the betrothal agreement was one of the parchments in front of his father. "Is it a Frey?" He suspected that one of the houses that betrayed their Young Wolf would be given his sister as a generous reward for proving their loyalty was utmost to the Iron Throne.

"No, it is not," Tywin picked up one of his papers, "Though Lord Walder asked for it, but he was declined-repeatedly."

Tyrion smirked, "Lord Frey's ambition is an admirably ugly thing."

"A southern house would not be well received in the north especially within its heart at Winterfell," Tywin said mildly, "It seemed wiser to reward a northern family that proved themselves to our house."

"A trade was made," Tyrion figured it out, remembering how his brother's freedom had been secured, and the words that followed next from his father only confirmed it.

"Lady Sansa has been betrothed to Lord Bolton's son and heir," Tywin revealed, "Ser Domeric Bolton."


	2. The King who lost the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So judging by the reaction the first chapter got, it appears I'm not the only one who thought this idea no matter how far fetched was worth exploring. That's a relief. Thanks to all those who put your thoughts and encouragements in the form of review. That's what will keep this story going.

"The King who lost the North!" They cheered.

"The King who lost the North!" They jeered.

"The King who lost the North!" They drank.

All he could do was listen and languish in his cell.

The revelry hadn't stopped since his capture.

I lost more than just the North. All Robb had was time to reflect on his failures as they moved the progression of him and his supporters. Those few who were too loyal or too foolish or too stubborn to bend the knee to the Lannister controlled Iron Throne.

I've lost too much. It hurt. It hurt so much to be confronted with the breadth of his mistakes.

Winterfell.

Home.

Bran.

Rickon.

Jeyne.

The final name, that of his wife that had been the most recent of losses. It was a wound that festered on his heart. The Lannisters had been all too happy to reveal that Lady Westerling and Rolph Spicer played crucial roles in Robb's demise.

'Your lady wife was most distraught with your defeat,' The Lannister guardsman had reported smugly to him one day. It made Robb yearn to have the strength to reach through the bars and strangle him.

'Her grief became inconsolable when she heard of her family's role.' He added, relishing every word, savoring the power he had over the broken king. 'She jumped off the highest turret of the trout's castle.'

Robb's heart had lurched at the news. He had been unable to hide his reaction, so the guardsman saw it, and delivered the rest of the details in a tone dripping with triumph: 'Her body was found three days later down river-dead.'

I never should've gone to the Crag that night, that battle, Robb pushed himself off the damp, straw strewn floor, unable to sit any longer, stewing in those memories. Jeyne would still be alive, and I wouldn't have brought those vipers into my wolf's den. He had been so angry he nearly broke his hand punching the cell wall.

She died to prove her innocence, Robb thought morosely, To prove she had no part in her family's deception, in their betrayal of him.

In the end, I didn't save her, my marriage to her was more a dagger through her chest than the shield I thought it be, Robb paused at that. Trying to remember the young girl, the young woman he married-my newly married wife.

She had been pretty and kind. Her smile was shy, but Robb had thought it beautiful, just like her. The love and compassion she had for her her brothers, her sister. Jeyne risked her life to tend to him all in the name of protecting them her she tried to comfort him when Winterfell fell, and his brothers killed. She cared so much, all she wanted was to please me, to make me happy. She was selfless.

Yet, despite all those wondrous feelings and memories of the wife he left behind in his capture and her death, seditious thoughts betrayed his heart.

Had that been a ploy? A ruse orchestrated by her mother? She used her own daughter as a pawn into my bed, and into the lion's good graces. In his cell, he had heard his guards talking about the rewards House Westerling had received in the part they played in his downfall-Pardons, promises of good marriages, land, and wealth.

Robb felt the beating of his heart. It pounded into his ribs, like a hammer to the anvil. He felt the growing anger, burning hot, and lashing within as he stewed on Lady Westerling's treachery. I invited you into my family, and you betrayed them.

House Westerling rose due to the collapse of his house.

The thought of the Starks downfall was as if he plunged into icy waters. I've failed them, he was miserable in his reflections. I couldn't save Arya, or Sansa. I couldn't get justice for Father.

Father.

Robb felt the tight constriction in his chest. He feared what Father would say to him if he saw him now-Cold words and harsh truths, and Robb deserved them all.

His children dead or scattered, Winterfell sacked, The Starks displaced.

The depth of his failures was enough to drown him.

I should've made them kill me, Robb had pondered his own life in the days spent in darkness since his capture. I'd rather be dead than a prisoner to Lions. Better to die with a sword in hand than to serve as an example of Tywin's cunning and Frey's treachery.

Despite his dark thoughts, Robb didn't try to end it. Another failure.

He moved to one of the corners to relieve himself.

I wonder was this how the Kingslayer felt all those months as my captive, He wondered as he finished up, wiping his hands on the front of his dirty and ripped trousers.

In the end it didn't matter. His family won and mine lost.

"Stay back, Savage!"

Robb turned to the flickering of the torchlight to see one of his guard's arrived. The stench of wine clung to him. He backed away as the guard opened the gate, to give Robb his supper.

"More than you deserve, traitor," The guard spat, "Scraps for a dog." The guard closed the gate with a loud clang, turning and walked away, taking with him the light, and plunging his cell back into blackness.

Robb grabbed the food on the floor. Uncaring, he took a bite of the stale bread, savoring the food, as his stomach rumbled, grateful. It only took two more bites to finish the bread. He didn't try to keep or savor it. He was too hungry to consider such luxuries. He then moved onto the waterskin, and drank from it greedily. It only contained a few drops, but Robb lapped it all up, despite it's peculiar taste.

He let out a satisfying breath when he finished.

At first, he tried to hold onto his pride, refusing to be treated in such a manner, ignoring meals and the guards. He soon discovered desperation was a stronger emotion than pride. He abandoned his self-induced protest, remembering how the guards had sneered and cackled at the sight.

Mongrel.

Unnatural.

More beast than man.

A cell's too good for him. He should burn in the Seven Hells.

When there was food, he had peace. He could focus all on eating. He didn't have to dwell on his thoughts and memories, reflections and prayers. It was all gone in that instant of hunger and relief. Until he finished eating then it all came rushing back to him. His mind making him relive the misery over and over.

He had one reprieve. One way to escape from this cage without the lions being aware. His only shield to stem the heavy thoughts that threatened to crush him. At times, when he closed his eyes he dreamed of Grey Wind.

We are tethered him and I, It had been a terrifying concept. One he tried to deny even when he realized what his dreams really were. A Warg and a monster, He recalled the tales Old Nan would tell them, The Warg King, the name itself brought a chill to climb his spine. An enemy of Winterfell, and destroyed by his ancestors.

I was the Warg king, he thought numbly. The defeated king who lost everything except it wasn't wolves that ended him, but lions.

The crinkle of leaves beneath his foot, his ears perked up. His nose touched the wind, he smelled the fear of his prey. They were rankled with it. He moved closer, quiet as a shadow, slipping through the darkness to remain unseen. His prey were foolish. They illuminated themselves in light, a beacon to his hunger.

He moved closer, skidding the edges of their camp. Their light was bright. Two, three, four men, he counted, his eyes moved to the familiar symbols that one of them wore. He inched forward to better discern it. At recognition, he bit back the snarl that threatened to escape- blue towers on a grey field. He watched the men for sometime in his spot beneath the brush, where they never looked. His prey were foolish and secure in thinking they were safe. He saw his chance when one of the men broke away, going into the forest, talking to others who waved him away.

He moved around the roots and leaves to this man. Deft in steps as to not give away his presence, until he spotted the man, his back to him, facing a tree. Distracted, and unaware, he moved in for the kill.

Robb jolted upwards. The tether snapping him out of Grey Wind and back to his cell. He looked around to see the reason of his intrusion, spotting the guards were talking and clanging their tankards together as they switched shifts. He could taste the blood of that fallen Frey, before the connection was severed. He couldn't push himself back into Grey Wind now. He'd have to wait.

In his capture, he remembered feeling Grey Wind's presence, his anger, his urge to protect, but Robb stemmed it. Taking control of his direwolf so that he could flee, I won't let you die, Grey Wind. As he poured his concentration into his wolf, trying to control Grey Wind's will. It had been a struggle, but the wolf finally relented, and retreated back into the forest.

The Freys had other wolves killed instead to present to the Lannisters, who couldn't tell the difference, and had taken them at their word. My only means of escape. That was how he kept his mind despite the dark thoughts that pressed him at all edges.

"Congratulations are in order, Your Grace," the newer guard sneered. "It looks like you'll have a new brother." His eyes shined maliciously in the dim torchlight. "Your sister is going to marry a flayed man."

"I heard she'd make a fine pelt," the other guard replied, guffawing at his jape. "A flayed wolf."

The Lannisters have no end to their depravity, Robb fumed, Sansa deserves better than a Bolton. Then he thought of the stories of the Bolton bastard and the crimes he was accused of. No, he cannot marry her. Robb felt the icy dread fill his stomach. What have I damned Sansa to a life of?

"The Boltons don't deserve a young maiden and a castle," The first guard spat, "They're traitors and savages. They deserve the noose," he pointed a thumb in Robb's direction, "Or a cell."

"You forget," the second guard reminded him, "The Boltons realized what happens when you cross a lion." He looked directly at Robb, a cruel smile spread over his scarred face, "And repented for their treachery." He laughed, loud and wheezing. "Otherwise we may not have found ourselves a caged wolf."

The Boltons. Robb gave no reaction. He would not give them the satisfaction.

"Lion got your tongue?" The guard cackled, before turning his attention back to the other.

How was I to win a war when all I could inspire was treachery?

Theon.

The Boltons.

The Karstarks.

The Westerlings.

The Freys.

His own mother.

Friends, family, and bannermen, who was I to turn to?

The betrayals cut deep. His mother especially so. Hers very well could have cost him his freedom. With no kingslayer, the Lannisters had no need to even consider any sort of exchange of hostages.

Mother got what she wanted, he thought bitterly, She'll be reunited with Sansa. Robb sighed, pushing away those unfair thoughts, not needing them to take root. I'm to blame for this,he would not try to hide from the blame that rightfully fell on him.

To the others who betrayed him. He would not forget. He would not forgive.

Grey Wind is my means of vengeance.

It is not just Freys I hunt, he was vicious in his pursuit. Rolph Spicer, Lady Westerling, he growled at the names, he'd find them, and show them the wrath of a wolf. What it costs to betray the Starks.

When that was done, he'd call for Grey Wind to join him in the north. He wouldn't dare bring Grey Wind near him despite the direwolf's insistence. He'd lost enough, he knew Grey Wind would be slaughtered. I have too many guards. The Iron Throne would not take any chances with their prized hostage escaping.

They'll see me to the Wall. And take pleasure at me rotting so far north in the cold with the other criminals.

That'll be when he'll be reunited with Grey Wind. When the threat of lions is no longer upon them. We'll be at the Wall together. He felt a few drops of happiness fill his empty heart. He welcomed them like a dying man of thirst.

With Jon and Ghost, he added, and nearly felt his lips twitch at the thought of the reunion with his brother.

Jon will despise you, a cruel voice whispered to him. You let our home be burned and taken. You let them kill our brothers, and couldn't get our sisters. He reeled at the realization of Jon's reaction to his presence.

He'd be right to hate me, Robb shivered, miserable. I deserve to be hated.

I'll be reviled as the worst Stark. A title I earned in my mistakes. I won every battle, but lost the war. I did what I thought was right, but each of those choices proved to be wrong.

I let Theon go.

I married Jeyne.

I refused to yield my crown.

I failed at retrieving my sisters.

He stared blankly ahead of him, mulling them all-again and again. A wheel that would not stop spinning.

In the darkness of his cell, Robb Stark wept at everything he lost and everyone he failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I couldn't kill Grey Wind. I hope you can forgive me.
> 
> I'm going to try to keep chapters short. This story will be structured differently because of it.
> 
> Robb's in a pretty bad place. So this chapter was pretty doom and gloom, I hope I was able to properly capture Robb's thoughts and his mood. It proved a little challenging because most of it was inner turmoil which I feared might get repetitive, hopefully I avoided that.
> 
> This will probably be his lowest point in this story.
> 
> Also any ideas or inspiration for a cover image would be appreciated.
> 
> Don't forget to drop a review. It would mean a lot to me and my muse.
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	3. The Lone Wolf

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

How many times had father told them that?

When did I ever listen?

I am the lone wolf, Sansa had wept when Lord Tyrion had told her the news of his family's victory over hers. Robb betrayed and beaten. He'll live, but it'll be on the Wall in exile. She had prayed for his victories, she had dreamed of his rescue, but those prayers went unanswered, and her dreams of freedom dashed. She remained in the capital, the lonely Stark amidst the lions, snakes and rats.

I'm to be married, that had also been told to her, to house Bolton. Her stomach roiled at that. She had heard the whispers of court and the boasts from King Joffrey. Her future good family had played a part in betraying her brother.

Now I am to be married into their house. A family known for flaying and sedition. She recalled from her lessons with Maester Luwin, House Bolton's rivalry with her house. The rebellions and wars that had broken out between the Kings of Winterfell and the Red Kings of the Dreadfort. The Starks had always prevailed.

Until now, she corrected, with a tinge of melancholy.

Lord Tyrion had been kind to her when he explained her new circumstances. He had been polite and tried his best to even cheer her up when he delivered the news about her future husband.

It could've been worse, my lady, he had said, My family could've married you to me.

You are a better man than them, my lord, she had replied, noticing the surprise that came and left just as quickly to the dwarf's face.

He then told her what little he knew or heard of the man she'd soon be calling husband. He had been in the Vale the last five years and that he was a knight.

There would've been a time when her heart would've fluttered at the news of marrying a knight. She'd swoon at the idea of the songs of her youth coming to life. When I dreamed of princes, and thought life was a song.

I was a stupid girl. She wanted to recoil at her younger self. I know better now.

I may be the lone wolf, but I will survive, she vowed. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, a wolf, and she would not bend to the lions now.

"You are going to ruin that dress."

Sansa blinked, looking up to see her handmaiden, Shae approach.

"That would be a poor first impression for your husband to be."

She stood from where she had been kneeling in front of the heart tree of the Red Keep's godswood. It wasn't the pale, haunting weirwood that use to frighten her as a child. Nestled in the godswood of her home in Winterfell. The pale bark, the red leaves, the carved face that felt powerful even in silence. This was a poor substitute, a great oak tree, but it was the only place in the capital that Sansa felt any draw to.

This is my refuge from the lions.

"Is he on the way?"

Shae raised a dark eyebrow at her. "He is, my lady."

Sansa smiled, "Good," she lied. "He can meet me here."

"Very well, my lady," But Shae made no effort of leaving her. "Are you nervous?"

"Why should I be nervous?" She challenged, hoping her tone could mask the truth.

It didn't. "You are about to meet your new betrothed."

"I've been betrothed before," Sansa reminded her. To a prince, she winced upon remembering how blind she had been to Joffrey. She had longed to be his queen so badly, that she betrayed her family, forsaking the words of her mother's house and ignoring father's warning.

Everything that has happened to my family is on my shoulders. The gods have cursed me.

"Yes, but he is from the north," Shae pointed out, "And one of the houses to have-"

"Repented," Sansa finished for her handmaiden, ignoring the odd look she sent her. Sansa never knew who was watching or listening. "My brother is a traitor, and received his just punishment." Forgive me, Robb, she prayed.

Shae was looking at her with those dark, piercing eyes. Her dark hair fell in waves behind her, and even though she wore a simple gown, it was the confidence in which she moved that Sansa realized that made her so appealing. She was Sansa's newest but now only handmaiden, but she wasn't certain what to make of her. She found her more blunt and bawdy than Sansa would have liked.

Is she the Queen's spy? Sansa couldn't help but wonder, or someone else's. Sansa did not know, but she would not be played a fool.

With that word, she couldn't help but think of Ser Dontos, the court's fool. The man she had saved from Joffrey's wrath, and in return he vowed to bring her back to Winterfell. It was here in this godswood beneath this great oak, he swore to her.

I told him it was over, she remembered the memory. She had been so giddy after speaking to the Tyrells. I'm going to Highgarden, she had told him with the utmost confidence. Who's the fool now? She wondered, him or me?

He warned me, and I ignored him, the reminder soured her.

"He's a knight," Shae took her silence as sullenness.

And Joffrey was a prince, she wanted to counter. "He is."

"He may treat you well," Shae encouraged, "You are lovely lady, and with the proper lessons you can bend him to your will."

Sansa felt heat creep to her cheeks at what her handmaiden was insinuating, "His family's banner is a flayed man."

"I will not pretend to understand why you nobility insist on putting strange things on your shields and clothes," She shrugged, "I suppose it is a man's way to prove their worth or strength or measure their prowess," She waggled her eyebrows, "but it does not make them one. In the end, they're all just men," Shae told her, "and men are easy."

Sansa didn't have her confidence. I'm a wolf, she tried to remind herself, but I act like a beaten dog. "Mayhaps," was all she said.

How could I love someone who's family betrayed mine?

"Have you met him before?"

"No," Sansa answered, "Only his father."

She hoped he didn't resemble his father. Lord Bolton had always frightened her, especially his eyes.

"Not a handsome man, I take it," Shae smirked, perfectly reading Sansa's reaction.

"All that matters, is that he is a loyal subject to King Joffrey."

Shae quirked an eyebrow at that, but thankfully didn't press her. "Did you not say your mother will be here?"

"She will be," That was the only good news she had heard. Sansa hadn't seen her mother since they left for Winterfell. I was so different then, frowning at her younger self, I had begged and pleaded for her to talk to Father about the betrothal...

"So there will be some happiness to be found, my lady," Shae pointed out, "Even here."

Only for a while, Soon after the wedding, Sansa would head north, but her mother would remain. A hostage to the crown to insure her brother's loyalty of his new vows to the Night's Watch. Only the Lannisters could be so cruel as to reunite with her mother only to tear them apart just as quickly.

I'll return to Winterfell. That had been all Sansa had wanted these last months. However, it wasn't with family she'd be returning with, but her new husband. Who's very house betrayed hers to secure such a promising reward-her and Winterfell.

I'm only coveted for what my blood can offer, can secure, her heart lurched upon realizing no man would marry her for her. It was only Winterfell they wanted, a chance to rule the north. It's my claim they want, not me. No one would marry me for love, but for Winterfell. They'd rather be called Warden of the North then my husband.

"My lady?" Shae pulled her from her thoughts to alert of his approach.

There he is, she spotted coming towards him. There was still some distance between them allowing her to study the man who'd she soon call husband.

He was tall and slender. His hair was ink black, short and curly. It was his eyes that drew Sansa's focus. She had silently feared he'd resemble his father, but to her relief, his eyes weren't the pale and unflinching of Lord Bolton. They were blue, a pale blue, but blue all the same. And she found them….unexpectedly lovely.

She was quick to crush that traitorous thought. I thought the prince handsome too, and it was a snare, and I fell to it.

He dressed in the colors of his house. He wore black trousers, his doublet was a dark pink, powdered across it were small drops of crimson. He wore a pale red cloak which was held up by an obsidian pin in the shape of a blood drop.

Soon those will be my colors, my house, she wanted to cringe in disgust.

When he was close enough, he lowered his head. "My lady," he greeted her with a smile.

It looked sincere, but Sansa knew better than to believe it. If a Prince cannot treat me well, how could a Bolton?

"My lord," She dipped into a curtsey.

"You may call me Domeric, if you like."

"Thank you, my lord," she replied, but I would not like to, or you or this arrangement.

His smile faltered at that, "Mayhaps, a walk around the garden?"

"If you'd like." She would give him nothing.

"I would like that," He said politely, "As well as getting to know my future wife."

"Very well," Sansa said primly, "I can lead you."

"My thanks," he responded, mistaking her courtesies as some form of progress between them.

They began down a stone path that Sansa knew well. They walked side by side, Shae behind them as their chaperone. She was thankful when he made no attempt at taking her hand or her arm. There was space between them, which she was happy with. A silence fell over them which Sansa would make no effort on ending.

I have nothing to say to him that a lady could say.

"I shall start by saying," It seemed he wasn't keen on letting them take this stroll quietly. "That I am sorry about your father."

"He was a traitor." Forgive me, Father.

He frowned, caught off-guard by her reaction.

Good, Sansa thought triumphantly. You do not know me.

"Regardless, he sounded to be a good man."

He was a great man, she wanted to correct, but she settled for looking ahead and remaining quiet. I will give you nothing.

"I spent the last five years in the Vale, and many knew your father and spoke well of him," He continued, "And when he passed, they mourned," He spoke as if she should be honored by such empty words.

If they loved my father so much then why didn't they help Robb? She wanted to snap. If the Vale cared for her family like he claimed then they would've joined her brother's cause. Robb could've won or secured a peace, that would allow her to be with him and the rest of her family at Winterfell. I wouldn't be forced to marry you.

"Thank you for those words, my lord."

He thought her sincere. "You are welcome, my lady."

The silence returned between them, and she welcomed it. Inwardly counting the seconds when she believed propriety had been observed between them so that she could excuse herself from him and be alone once more.

"My lady."

She stemmed her frustration at his unwillingness to let them be silence between them. "Yes?"

He sighed and then stopped walking. He ran a hand over his face. His polite facade cracking.

Sansa took it all in silent triumph. I will not be frightened by a flay man. I am a wolf. She watched him, hiding her victorious smirk, and looking at him in a state of polite bewilderment, feigning confusion to his distress.

"You have every right to hate me."

And I do, she wanted to say, but she remained silent, hiding behind a veneer of civility.

"My family betrayed yours."

"Our families betrayed the crown," She finally said, "Yours repented, and mine did not." She took satisfaction at seeing that her unexpected answer further confounded him.

"I see," His pale blue eyes on her.

She ignored the slight sensation she felt at being the center of those eyes and simply stared back at him, with a mask of polite indifference.

He turned from her as if to excuse himself, in which Sansa was hoping to be true. However, he had a change of heart at the last moment, much to Sansa's chagrin.

"I did not ask for this either," he said slowly, "There was another I hoped to wed, but that was not the duty my father wanted of me." He pointed to her and then him. "This is."

"Your father had a duty to my brother!" She said it before she could stop herself. Sansa was unable to contain the simmering anger at his audacity to claim to be the victim of this arrangement. Her civility crumbled to that rage, unable to stem it back after witnessing all the injustices that she and her family had faced.

She wasn't sure what he was taken aback by more-her words or the growl she delivered them in. Regardless, she was proud of the reaction she elicited from him.

His surprise soon flickered away, and a smile was slow in forming. "The wolf at last," he hummed with amusement, "I feared the whispers were true that the lions had made you docile."

Sansa blinked owlishly at him. Her confusion snuffing the anger that had just been burning.

"Winterfell doesn't need a broken wolf, my lady," he told her calmly, "As your family is known to say: Winter is Coming, and when it does we shall need a strong Lady of Winterfell to guide the north. A wolf as it were," he gestured to her, "to lead us."

Before she could react, he took her hand in his. She was surprised by the gentleness of his touch, despite his calloused hands. "The north is yours, my lady." His pale blue eyes gleamed up at her. "I am but a servant to my wife," he placed the faintest of kisses to the back of her hand.

She felt something in her chest twitch at his touch and gaze. She cursed it and called it treachery. When his hand released hers, that same seditious thought returned, at the disappointment that their touch was broken.

"Winterfell belongs to the wolves," he assured her, "but due to the scheming of others, we now belong together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shae in this story will more resemble her show counterpart. 
> 
> This story also will not totally adhere to the book timeline. There will be some liberties taken.


	4. The Heir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who took the time to drop a comment. I appreciate it. I'm sorry I wasn't able to reply to them this time, but know that I read them all, and they're a great source of inspiration to me.

She despises me.

The observation was blunt but truthful. Even with all her beauty he could see the anger lurking beneath. He knew much of it was directed at his family for what his father had done to hers.

She has every reason to, Domeric couldn't deny her that. Would I be so different if our roles were reversed?

He retired to the small chambers the Lannisters had given him for his short stay in the capital. His thoughts remained on his newly met betrothed. He realized quickly upon meeting her, that it would be no easy feat to ingratiate himself into her good graces.

He dipped his hands in a basin filled with cold water. Domeric wasn't certain how the southerners could handle such heat. He loosened his tunic collar before grabbing a waiting piece of cloth to soak it.

Domeric let out a sigh when he pressed the cold compress to his cheeks. Immediately cooled from the intense heat that the south seemed content with. He massaged his face, savoring the chilly sensation that helped to chase away the unbearable warmth.

Will she see me as anything other then the man whose family betrayed hers? He feared the answer that came to him. He sighed as he dipped the cloth back into the basin.

Does it matter if she loves you? His father's voice was soft and mocking in his mind. Put a son in her belly and be done with it, with her.

Domeric applied the wet cloth onto his neck, relaxing under its cold touch.

If I am to have any chance of holding the north and Winterfell, I must earn her trust, he reasoned. We cannot rule a united north if our own marriage is divided. He wrung out the cloth and dried his hands.

She was the last Stark standing, he noted. The wolf who was forced into the lion's den, but will leave it while all others were chained or killed.

There was strength in that. She had survived. Alone against the lions, but she prevailed. Her father lost her head. Her brother lost the war. Her mother lost her freedom. While Sansa was going home.

The more he thought about what she endured, the more he couldn't help but admire her. And yet upon their first introduction, he found himself disappointed. In speaking with her, he saw no wolf only a sheep. A docile hostage that had been stripped of her pride and courage to be put on display.

I was wrong. He was never more happy to be wrong when he finally was able to rouse the wolf in her. The wolf is there, hiding and lying in wait but ready.

It was that strength that would be needed to run the north in these trying times.

He just needed her to see past the flayed man so that they could do it together.

Easier said than done, he was resigned to the challenge that awaited him as he worked to figure out how he could succeed.

Success that he needed to achieve. He was tired of hearing all about his bastard brother, Ramsay, and everything he had accomplished for their father. Ramsay knows the north and has served and proven himself to their father while Domeric was stuck in the Vale. He knows the men who serve under their father, and they know Ramsay.

Domeric was coming back to the north a stranger to those who followed the flayed man. It was a disadvantage that he could not overlook. He was also under no delusions that Ramsay would welcome him into the fold. The bastard probably expected better rewards for his effort and would look at Domeric with greedy eyes and selfish ambitions and wonder why it was Domeric who was getting them, and not himself.

I do not need his acceptance, only his obedience. Domeric was under no obligations when it came to his brother. I am the heir, not him.

His aunt had warned him that Ramsay was a mad dog. One that served its purpose when Father let him off the leash. Scaring and killing those who needed to be dealt with, but it was still dangerous. After each time you let it off, it became more challenging to put it back on. It grew accustomed to the freedom and learned to despise the collar.

There was a time when I wanted to befriend this bastard, he recoiled at his foolish notion. He moved to pour himself something to drink, Arbor Gold. His thoughts dwelling on his bastard brother, and the friendship he had once yearned for.

If I had left the Vale like intended then I would've went to him. He frowned down at his filled glass, before taking a small sip. It was too sweet, but he wasn't drinking it for the taste.

The reports his Aunt had given him in their private correspondence painted a picture of his bastard brother that disquieted Domeric. He was certain that if he had met him than it would not be a brotherly embrace that awaited him, but a dagger to the belly or a poisoned chalice.

He had no proof of his brother's intentions, but the words of his aunt and his own instincts, made Domeric realize he would need to watch himself around Ramsay Snow once he returned north.

A bastard will not inherit the Dreadfort, Domeric drank to that, nor will a bastard rule the north.

It is not just myself I must shield from him, but my wife too.

The Starks and Winterfell, the prize his ancestors had lusted after for centuries, and it was to be his. Not his father's not Ramsay's, but his, and he would make certain not to lose it to a bastard brother.

He drained his cup to that silent toast of ruling the north. I'll rise higher than any Red King. The thought made him smile, My domain will be greater than any ancestor before me.

Domeric took a seat by one of the cushioned chairs near the window. The breeze was warmly welcomed. However, the smell that it carried was not. He wrinkled his nose at it. Amazed that the smell of shit and cum could reach him at this height.

"Domeric."

He turned in his seat to see his oldest and truest friend, Ser Mychel Redfort. He was Lord Redfort's youngest and the one closest to Domeric in age. He saw him as more a brother than a friend as they grew up together in the Vale during Domeric's fostering.

"Mychel," he greeted his friend warmly, pleased at seeing such a friendly face. Since all his betrothed had given him was chilly indifference and wolfish anger.

"How did it go with your betrothed?" Mychel asked bluntly while helping himself to some of the wine.

"As well as you can imagine," Domeric replied dryly.

Mychel chuckled, "So she was not pleased at being married to a flayed man?" He plopped himself down in the chair opposite Domeric's.

"She was not," Domeric found himself smiling. Not for the first time was he thankful for his friend's infectious charm. His carefree and amiable nature had made Domeric jealous in the past. His friend was a fourth son with little responsibility and more freedom, allowing himself to be indulgent unlike his older brothers.

"Really?" Mychel feigned surprise.

"She has misgivings," Domeric said respectfully while still smiling.

"About marrying a man whose father turned on her brother?" Mychel brushed aside some of his messy blond hair that had fallen over his eyes.

"It has dampened her enthusiasm."

Mychel snorted into his cup.

Domeric laughed, despite the seriousness his situation. His friend always had a way of being able to find mirth even in the most solemn of occasions or conversations. However, that never meant he doubted his friend's intentions or loyalty.

"I thought every girl dreamed of being draped in the colors of the flayed man?"

Domeric smirked, "Apparently not."

"Is she at least comely?" Mychel asked, "It would be a pity if you had to marry a bride that not only despises you, but is a homely, pock marked maiden."

"She is lovely," Domeric thought those words unbefitting of the beauty that his soon to be bride possessed. His mind's eye conjuring up the woman he had recently met in the godswood. She was tall and graceful, with thick auburn curls that fell past her shoulders, bright blue eyes, pale skin, and high cheekbones. He was not certain he had seen a more beautiful woman in all his time in the Vale.

It was his friend's laughter that shook him from his reverie of his betrothed's beauty.

"Thank the Seven," Mychel was still laughing. "Your spiteful bride will at least be glaring prettily at you with silent loathing."

Domeric chose to drink from his glass rather than reply. Finishing it up in one greedy sip. The sweet taste lingered in his mouth, while he poured himself another.

"So what will you do?" There were no longer any hints of mirth in his friend's tone.

"I am not certain," He sighed, "I cannot undo the grievances my family has done to hers."

This was the first time he allowed himself to voice aloud his frustrations to another at the trials set out in front of him. This was quite the web he found himself spun into. The thread connecting him to his betrothed was hatred, and it was more likely to unravel than to harden.

The North, Winterfell they were beyond his grasp if he feared a dagger from his bride.

"You're overthinking it."

"I'm what?" If anything, he'd argue he wasn't thinking enough on it. Domeric looked up to see his friend was watching him closely.

"You're thinking about Winterfell."

Domeric frowned at his friend's perceptive nature. He tried to hide how right he was by lifting his glass to block his mouth.

Mychel chuckled. "You need to think about today, my friend."

"What do you mean?"

"You are trying to push a cart without your horses," Mychel clarified. "When you need to worry about the present." He leaned back in his seat. "It's your betrothed you must win over."

Domeric scoffed. "She hates me."

"Bullshit."

Domeric was surprised by his friend's blunt and unexpected response.

"She hates your father, your bastard brother," he explained, "And for good cause, but you?" He shook his head, "She has no reason to hate you, and you must show her that." He pointed at him. "You must insure she understands that you were not part to your family's schemes or betrayals."

"She sees the flayed man. She see an enemy."

"Then you must show her a different flayed man," Mychel countered. "Has she heard you play your harp? Have you talked to her about your time with your Aunt? Or your time in the Vale?"

"And how do you suggest I do that?" Domeric bit the annoyance that threatened to seep into his voice. He already knew his success was tied to Sansa. That was his problem. He was not sure he had a way of building any such bridge that could close the divide that was firmly entrenched between them.

"Slowly," Mychel shrugged, as if the answer was easy and obvious, "Start with a dinner."

"A dinner," he repeated more for himself, mulling it over. "It has merit."

"It has more than just merit." Mychel snorted, "Otherwise you would not be looking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you are plotting." Mychel grinned.

Domeric rolled his eyes, "I am hardly plotting."

Mychel made a noise in the back of his throat that signaled what he thought of Domeric's answer, but said nothing aloud. Comfortable with drinking Domeric's wine and savoring the satisfaction that his idea was the right one and what Domeric would be using.

It was simple, but ingenious. He needed time to show her that he was not the man she had built up in her mind. That he was not the enemy who turned on her brother.

A dinner could be the start, he realized, a chance to get her comfortable with who he was and who they could be.

I must tear down the perceptions she has of me. I must pull out those thoughts and feelings she's allowed to root within her heart about him and his character. I must show her that I am not the flayed man she needs to fear, but a husband whom she can trust.

The more he considered this approach, the more he approved of it.

I'll arrange for it tonight, he decided. I'll try to make it the first of several.

He was not foolish enough to think one supper together could have him overcome all the obstacles his family has put up between him and Sansa. They were not to wed for a fortnight so that should give him more time and chances to at least insure that the wedding itself was bearable for her.

I will ask after her, He needed to learn everything he could about her if this was to work.

He stood up. He had a lot to do if this supper was to be successful.

"I take it you have a plan?"

"Aye," Domeric answered, "And I will need your help."

"More of it?"

"Yes."

"Very well," His friend sighed, feigning exasperation, "I expect one of yours sons to be named in honor of me for all the help that I've given."

"In order for this Mychel Bolton to exist than your help will need to bear fruit."

Mychel nodded approvingly at the name, "What do you require of me?"

Domeric informed him of his growing plan and for the first time since arriving to King's Landing, he felt hope that his aspirations for the north, his bride, his family could be fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo about that poor Mychel/Michael Bolton joke/reference. It actually didn't even come to me until after I wrote down the line. And then I read it over, and thought- Well now I gotta keep this. It's so corny it has to be included.
> 
> I know the summary and pairing tags suggest/imply heavy focus on one storyline. However, Domeric and Sansa are important to this story and will have large roles, that's why we're focused on them right now in the capital. The North will soon be the center of this story both from the Wall and Winterfell before those eventually converge.
> 
> So hopefully no one is too disappointed.
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	5. The Dreaded Dinner

“It’s an invitation.”

A man who had introduced himself as Ser Mychel Redfort was standing in her chambers. “It is, my lady,” he addressed Shae who had spoken. “My friend would be honored to have you present.” 

Sansa wanted to refuse. She had no interest in seeing him again. Not to mention, the idea of eating with him made her nauseous. _How am I supposed to have an appetite sitting across him? Or eat with the flayed man watching me? His family betrayed mine and I’m supposed to break bread with him?_

“My lady would be honored.”

Sansa wanted to glare at her handmaiden, but she could not appear rude in the presence of guests. She settled for silently cursing her boldness, and vowing to speak to her on it once their guest was gone. 

Ser Mychel accepted Sansa’s handmaiden’s answer without hesitation. “Domeric will be glad.”

_He knows if I gave my voice what answer he would get. His friend wants me there, so he’ll accept the word of a servant to get it._

“I will go inform him,” he moved to the door.

“Ser?”  

“My lady?” He looked as surprised as Sansa was currently feeling by stopping him.

“You say, Ser Domeric is your friend.”

“Yes, my lady,” he answered, “He is a good man.” He seemed to see her doubt, since he added, “I have a lady,” he confessed. “Domeric promised to give me land in the north so that I can marry her.”

“Why wouldn’t your father do it?” Sansa's meddlesome curiosity was only continuing to grow. 

“I love my lady,” He smiled, thinking of her, “But that love cannot change who she is.” 

“And who is she?”

“Mya Stone.”

 _Stone,_ Sansa understood at once, he was in love with a bastard. The Redforts were an old and proud house. No wonder, his father would be wary of such a match.

“And Domeric would risk the ire of your father?” She found that strange. Lord Redfort fostered Domeric for years, and for him to make such an offer to his son and his bastard betrothed. It could appear a grave insult. None of it made sense to her. 

“Yes,” Ser Mychel answered. “As I said, my lady. Domeric is a good man.” 

“And your family?” 

“My brothers are happy for me. My father was not, but Domeric convinced him of the merits.”

“How?”

Some of his confidence faltered. “I am not sure,” he admitted, “My father and him spoke at length and afterwards, my father gave me his blessing. And the daughter of Lord Royce that I was to marry, would now marry my older brother, Jon.” He explained, “All I know is I will start my own house in the north. I plan to name it _Redstone_.” 

“A good choice, Ser Mychel.” She found herself mulling what he revealed about her betrothed. 

“Thank you,” He smiled and dipped his head, before he excused himself.

 _A considerate Bolton?_ She did not think it possible, and yet she could not poke any holes through Ser Mychel’s story or character. _There has to be something,_ she would not be fooled. 

* * *

“Wonderful,” Shae praised, standing behind Sansa who looked at her reflection through the looking glass. Her handmaiden had picked one of Sansa’s newly made dresses that she had been inspired to sew during her time with the Tyrells. It was not as scandalous as Margaery’s with a plunging neckline nor was it backless, but it was lighter and more apt for the south. 

It was mauve colored, with long sleeves with a symmetrical cut like Mother taught her.

 _Mother,_ she felt the hope filling her heart at being able to see her again.  _And how will she react when she finds out I’m to marry a Bolton?_

She ducked her head, reflecting on the roles she’s played for her family’s enemies. _I marry the family that betrayed Robb._

 _I don’t have a choice,_ she wanted to fight as she felt the hope being drained from her. An image of her mother flickering across her. The face was etched in disappointment. 

 _And if she finds out the truth about father,_ Sansa felt the onset of tears that painful truth she had to live with every day. _I ran to the Queen because I wanted Joffrey. I tossed my family aside for the promise of a crown._

“What’s wrong?” Shae frowned, her dark eyes looking her over.

So distracted in her thoughts, Sansa had foolishly allowed her doubt to be clearly seen on her face.  “It is nothing.” She said with as much authority as she could muster. It sounded like a whimper to her ears.

Shae did not hide her disbelief, but nor did she pry. “You will have this knight eating out of your hand, my lady.” 

“You think so?” She wished she had her handmaiden’s confidence. _I’m a Stark of Winterfell, and my own servant outshines me._ Her hand went to her freshly combed hair, allowing Shae to put it up in one of the southern fashions that was popular at Court. It was pulled back, and put in an intricate braid, allowing an obstructed view of her long neck. She felt so exposed in such an outfit, but Shae assured her this was the right choice to make. Sansa found herself once more trusting her handmaiden. 

“Oh yes,” Shae confirmed, “You will thaw his heart with such heat.” Her dark eyebrows arched at that to complete the insinuation. 

Sansa looked down to hide her red cheeks, but she willed herself not to blush. Looking back up at her reflection to see determined blue eyes staring back at her, “Thank you, Shae.” 

Her handmaiden gave a stiff curtsey. “You’re welcome, my lady.” 

A sharp rapping at the door had Sansa realize it was now time for this dreadful dinner which she still did not want to attend. Putting aside her feelings on it, knowing wallowing in them won’t get her back to Winterfell. _I must be strong like Mother. I must be brave like Robb._

Shae went to get it but not before throwing a suggestive look over her shoulder towards Sansa.

Sansa found herself painfully aware of her heart drumming against her chest. She refused to let it show as she came into view to see Ser Domeric had arrived. 

He gave her a long look. His face was unguarded about his desire. _Shae was right again,_ Sansa realized. 

 _I can do this,_ she told herself, despite the rumbling of her tummy that betrayed her nerves. 

She smiled when his eyes went back to her face, and he returned it. 

His pale blue eyes with his smile made him more handsome than she wished to admit. She pushed down-hard on that poisonous observation and made her way over to him. 

“My lady,” He greeted her, kissing the back of her hand when she gave it- _reluctantly._

“You may call me Sansa,” She corrected him. _I must play the role despite what it might entail._

He did not hide his surprise, “Sansa,” he inclined his head to her. “Are you ready to depart?” 

“I am,” _I’m not._

He looked pleased and offered her his arm which she took- _begrudgingly,_ but she was careful not to let any of that show towards her betrothed. _Let him see me as he wants to see me._

“You are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she was demure in her reply. _I do not want your praise. I want justice for my family._ Looking him over to see he was dressed in the colors of his family’s house. 

She nearly shuddered at the reminder that she’d soon be draped in those colors. _I will always be a Stark._ It felt like another one of her betrayals to her family. She turned on her father to the Queen, and here she was about to marry into the family that turned on her brother and mother.

  _Lannister and Bolton, and I serve them both._

* * *

“How long were you in the Vale?” She asked as the first course was presented to them. It was a salad of spinach, plums, candied nuts, and violets. 

“I fostered with Lord Redfort the past five years.” 

“How interesting,” She was pleased at how convincing her tone sounded and how he was quick to believe it. 

 _He has to._ _He need_ _s me._

“I was set to return home,” an odd look briefly passed over his face, “but the war broke out, and my father insisted I stay in the Vale.” 

 _To keep you safe as he schemed to betray my brother,_ she thought bitterly, but kept her mask in place. Nodding to his words, and she added a touch of understanding to her look to complete the disguise. 

His pale blue eyes regarded her, and his mouth was pressed together, that made her worry that her face had betrayed her true thoughts. Remembering how he had been able to see through some of her act when they were in the Godswood. 

_He did not see it through, he roused me. Wanting to see what lurked beneath. And he will not be happy with what he discovers. A wolf that is hungry for vengeance._

“I know I have no right to say this or any proof for you to believe me,” he said slowly, “But I would’ve fought for your brother.”

She snorted. “Like your father did?”

He frowned, but made no attempt to defend him.

 _Good,_ satisfied that he was not a complete fool. “Forgive me, Domeric, if I do not take comfort in your words,” she waved her hand. “Words are wind, and your family has proven the wisdom of that saying.”

_I’ve ruined supper and we haven’t even reached the second course._

“The wolf has been let off its chain,” Domeric sounded more amused than she liked. 

 _If I was truly off my chain, you and your traitorous family would be dead._  She showed none of her annoyance, but stared back at him, an impassive mask in place. 

“If you do not want my honesty, my lady, than what do you want?” 

 _Your family’s ruin,_ she wanted to say, _your silence,_ but looking into his pale blue eyes she decided on a different tact. “You speak of honesty and honor, _my lord_ , but your family has shown none of it towards mine. How am I to trust a man whose father betrayed my family?” 

“You have me there, my lady,” he took a long sip from his glass as if to gather his thoughts and try to find some way to explain or ingratiate himself to her.  “I would ask you to look ahead.”

“Look ahead?” _Behind me is lies, secrets, and betrayals, triumphant lions and beaten wolves._

“Yes,” He answered, “I cannot prove myself against actions taken by my family in the past. My father was in the Riverlands. I was in the Vale. He did not send me letters of his treason or the plots against your family. I had no part in your brother’s downfall. I am tied to my father through blood and name, but in those actions, he is alone.” 

She considered his words, and did not like the sense that some of it was making. She chewed on her greens, but the bland taste did little to distract her, and he took her silence as a means to continue to plead his argument.

“Look to our future, where I can if you let me use actions and not words to prove myself: Winterfell, a family, it can all be yours,” he promised her. “When we become husband and wife, we have our own vows to make, and I will treat them with the reverence they’re due, and the respect you deserve as a Stark and my wife.” He leaned back in his seat. His face conveying he knew he was arguing with little hope to succeed.

 “If you do not want that than that is your wish,” he conceded with a shrug, “but I’d rather we not be miserable for the rest of our lives especially with winter upon us. If we are to be snowed in at Winterfell, well I’d fear for my life, my lady,” he winked at her to belay the grim fate that he hinted at for himself. 

Sansa chose not to reply at first, let him stew in her silence and fret on how she will answer. She sipped her wine, the pleasing taste helping to soothe her stomach. His words sinking in like rocks. 

_I once hoped the same for Joffrey, and he repaid my trust with the blood of my father._

She chewed on one of her plums. Even in thought, she was careful to make sure she appeared a lady in her eating. He was insistent, she’d give him that, and consistent,  remembering he said similar things to her in the Godswood upon their introduction. He painted a pretty future with his sweet words, but her time in the capital had her know that words were often sweet, but beneath the intentions were ugly and terrible. 

“I will consider what you say, Domeric,” She settled for the predictable response, but she was determined not to let her guard down as she had done to Joffrey and the Queen. 

_I thought them sincere and it cost me everything._

“Thank you, my lady,” He sounded grateful. “I’ve spoken to Lord Tywin. The wedding between us will be within the week.” 

“I’m surprised. I would think your father would want us wed as quickly as we could.”

“He does,” Domeric met her stare, “But he is not the one getting married. I am.”

 _A small blessing,_ she considered the word while he watched her.  _No, not a blessing. He does not deserve that compliment._

“I was told your mother would be here in a few days,” He went on, “And I thought you’d wish for some family on the day you are wed.” 

“That was kind of you,” She inclined her head towards him. _Then again your father is the reason why my family cannot come. He betrayed my brother._

Domeric took her flat polite words with little response. “There was another matter brought up when speaking to the Lord Hand,” he paused. “The King had intended to give you a way.”

The thought of Joffrey filling the role of her father or Robb made her stomach churn. His wormy lips and cruel green eyes, looking down at her, cackling at her, hurting her. The fear fluttering within her chest like a scared bird. She tried not to show her discomfort, but Joffrey’s torments were thorough. 

It wasn’t until his next words where she was able to quiet the worry that was roaring within her. 

“I dissuaded the Lord Hand,” He said simply. “He _eventually_ agreed, understanding my concerns.”

“Your concerns?” She felt equal parts surprised and confused. 

“Yes,” He said no more as the servants came forward with their second course. It was smoked duck, presented with bread, cheese, and vegetables.  

It smelled and looked delicious, but the king had a way of souring her appetite. She did not want to appear rude, knowing that a lady’s courtesies could be her strength, her armor even if she felt weak. She cut up a thin piece and took a small bite. 

“He was the man who ordered your father’s death,” Domeric’s lips were pursed. His eyes betraying he had more he wanted to say, but was uncertain if he should.

“My father was a traitor,” She recited dully. 

Across her vision she saw his head on a pike. He was looking down at her. Dead eyes staring at her in silent accusation, a voice whispered inside her, _You are the betrayer. You are no wolf._

Sansa nearly coughed up her food at the forceful churning of her stomach. She managed to put her napkin to her mouth as more coughs followed. The taste of bile climbing up her throat. 

“My lady?” Domeric’s concern sounded genuine.

“I am fine,” She waved him away, not wanting him any closer. When the coughing ended, she put down her napkin. Sansa drank her wine, hoping it would drown the guilt that ate at her heart. 

He did not look convinced, but knew better than to press it further. “If you like you may return to your chambers.”

She was caught off guard by the gesture. He was giving her an excuse to leave. A dinner she did not even want to be at, and now had an opening to take it and go. 

“Thank you, Domeric,” she wavered, weighing the temptation to leave or her duty to stay. She chose the latter, realizing, more could be accomplished. “But I was enjoying myself, I think it has passed, and I would like to stay.”

“Very well,” Domeric carefully hid his reaction of her desire to stay. “I hope I did not go against your wishes about the wedding.”

 “You did not,” She realized she did not have to feign her gratitude at what he had done for her. She gave him a small smile. “I am grateful.”

“I am glad,” he returned to his food, but made no other attempt to speak to her. 

She ate quietly, looking up occasionally to see if he was watching her, but he was not. His attention was on his plate. He looked content at just allowing them to eat without the forcing of idle conversation between them. 

In the silence, her thoughts were noisy and messy while she reflected on the man sitting across from her.  

 _My actions will prove myself,_ he had assured her, showing her it already with delaying their wedding for her mother, and insuring Joffrey did not intend. _It is a mummery._ She heard the voice caution her. _Joffrey was kind and charming to you too. It was all lies._

 _No,_ she corrected herself, _I-I saw his nature at the Trident. Towards Arya,_ Her messy and wild younger sister’s mischievous grin flashing across her eyes. _I’m sorry, Arya,_ she wanted to say. _The Queen and Joffrey showed me who they were, but I wanted a crown more than a sister, to be a lion more than a wolf._

She mourned for the sister who was still missing and presumed dead. As well as her kind and gentle Lady, who was innocent, but was still butchered in the name of  the Queen and Prince’s perverted justice. _They killed her, and I still wanted to be them._

 _He spoke of a family, he promised Winterfell,_ she reflected on the home she had not seen in years. She had dreamed all her life to leave it, but here in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms, Winterfell was the only place she wanted to be. 

 _Bolton or Stark, it will always be my home._ She would never give them the satisfaction. 

 _I could have a daughter, Arya. And sons, Ned and Robb,_ picturing them back at Winterfell, smiling and laughing and playing just as she and her siblings had done when they were little. She found that it helped to dull the cold ache in her chest.

 _A Bolton with a Stark name, a Stark legacy,_ she found herself liking that. _My victory, my protest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take the time to thank pbluekan for their helpful insight, patience, and time in allowing me to bounce some ideas and general discussion about this fic. I appreciate it. 
> 
> More to come later, 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


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